Clockwork Silence
by Rainbow Stevie
Summary: -They have never had good luck with transportation routes-: A series of character studies revolving around the events of No Man's Land and Man Down.
1. No Man's Land

**Disclaimer: **Anne Donahue, CBS, Alliance Atlantis and the like own him and Dominic Abeyta gets credit for writing the scenes around which this chapter's based. I own nothing except my interpretation, though if I had a dollar for every bullet Horatio has ever fired, I might be able to change that. I jest, I jest! I merely play with borrowed characters for the enjoyment of myself and other fans. Oh, and I borrowed the title from a lyric in the Josh Groban song "Now or Never."

**Spoilers: **I said companion piece, and I meant it. This sticks tightly to the outline of episode 5x14, so if you haven't seen it and don't want to know what happens, you might want to steer clear.

**A/N:** I have a vague set of ideas about how I plan to have all this turn out…I'm putting them all under one story title, but each part will stand on its own and be centered around different characters, a bit like "Moonlight in Brazil" was. Future installments will probably not stick quite so tightly to the framework of the episode(s). I know for a fact that the next chapter, whenever I finish it, will be Eric-centric, post-Man Down and all over the map of crazy.

**Clockwork Silence**

No Man's Land

Authority comes easily to him - if he wasn't born a leader, life quickly forced him into that role and he hasn't looked back since. He's used to being in charge; more than that he _needs_ to be in control. As long as he holds the reins, unpleasant surprises are kept to a minimum and problems caught before they go south. He trusts no one so implicitly as himself.

There is power in intimidation. His stare has more often than not made taller men step backwards, but the most it seems to do to Clavo Cruz is vaguely amuse him. Horatio's glower never wavers, but he can feel his control slipping away.

It happens almost too quickly for him to react; one moment he is grinding his jaw against the other's insolence, trying to come up with another approach, and the next the guard is doubled over, bleeding from a knife wound. Still reeling from the viciousness of the attack, Horatio's eyes go from the guard being helped to his feet to the prisoner being restrained, expecting to finally see some reaction, some proof of the other man's seething hatred.

Clavo simply smiles, pleased as a child leaving for recess.

This look lodges in his mind long after he's left the prison, when he's poring over evidence from the morning's gun heist. Clavo Cruz does not fit any stereotype. He maims and murders at will, neither shaken by the bodies nor fascinated with controlling their lives. He does not fancy himself God, but behaves as if the people around him are toys, easily battered and tossed aside when it suits him. It's _casual_, and he's proud of it. Why shouldn't he be? It's allowed him to keep an alarmingly cool head for someone so impulsive, allowed him to orchestrate the confiscation of deadly artillery now threatening one of Horatio's own.

They have never had good luck with transportation routes.

It started with her voice on the phone, then a roar. He feared the worst and driving took longer than another phone call, but he needed to see for himself. Needed to confront the horror to verify its reality, seek a meaning for the splintered timber and faces rushing past in an unimportant blur, the smoking piles of rubble and circus of flashing emergency lights. He saw it all through a haze, vision screened for the one person that needed to be safe. Then she was there, sharp focus and a purple top, and time snapped back into motion, back to the dead officer at his feet and the rogue weaponry and the job at hand.

Alexx is bleeding yet she isn't hurt, not compared to these other citizens. Her injury is neither life-threatening nor serious. He knows this, but it still tugs at him, one more problem that lies unfixed. He can't leave her like that, so he hovers nearby, one eye on her. The cut on her head oozes a line of maroon, trailing down her cheek only a little too far right for a tear track. The doctor ignores it as she dresses another's wounds. He stares at its path until she feels his gaze and wearily turns her head, too tired to tell him he can stand down. There are no more words, only a handkerchief blotting a drop in the tidal wave against them.

The heat outside is oppressive, the promised rain hanging instead in the surrounding air along with the words of Clavo's most recent phone call. They remind Horatio that not only is he under a murderer's thumb, but that murderer is possessed of a serenity that makes him difficult to combat. Resden, Riaz, even Judge Ratner; all these men relished their victories, short-lived as they might have been, over Lt. Caine with deep-seated retribution; their contempt fed his own. Here there is no reciprocating anger to latch onto, and this frustrates him.

_Fetch me a million dollars, and don't forget the mojito. _He resists the orders, bristling at the tone before catching himself, but not before Clavo grins a little wider at seeing his resentment. Horatio remembers him with dark eyes, cold and empty features of a killer, but they sparkle with boyish delight, bemused by his position as a puppeteer. Horatio swallows his pride (it has trouble going down), and pretends to be complacent. They both know it's only half an act,with Clavo clearly getting off on bending the cop to his will. Resentment burns along the latter's skin while feet continue forward, steady, obedient, mind casting desperately for a way to buck that control.

Inside the bank his brain automatically begins compartmentalizing, noting the presence of two lurking men watching him carefully and proving the phone useless. The money will have to be withdrawn, but synapses continue to fire, forming a plan within the time constraint of the walk to the counter.

Judith Freeman is a pleasant woman who likes her job and does it well, never failing to engage her customers in conversation. She's a bright woman, too, cool under pressure. One quiet sentence and badge scraping across the glass does the trick; a nod to the teller and Clavo will be trailed. No response from the lurkers, that's good. One point. Still, he does not delude himself. The tracer is not a leash. He is banking on chance, and letting Cruz run in the wind to save the life of a woman who may or may not still be breathing when (_if)_ he finds her.

Transaction complete, he's back on the streets with a bag weighing heavy in his hands, but lighter on his mind, secure in the knowledge that with another five minutes of being humbled, the game will be his once more, balance restored with a lead he doesn't intend to relinquish again. Fifteen minutes later he and Eric have spotted the car, where that word "hero" flickers uncomfortably across his thoughts.

Shots ring out, and he has one bitter moment to realize he is still being maneuvered, the immediacy of a hostage outweighing any thoughts of a trap, before he's in survival mode, embroiled in a fire fight with Eric in the crosshairs. The chaos is entirely too familiar, the recesses of his mind settling in odd calm. Even when Delko falls, it never occurs to him that they won't make it out all right.

This, his gun, is power. He has control over direction and trigger, and rarely does it fail him. He plays cautionary defense until he spots the glint of a second sniper in a rearview mirror, crouches and takes aim. With perfect precision, the man tumbles. Routine work, doling out another death.

Nearby, Eric's breathing sounds labored but steady, waiting for rescue, before a single deafening crack drowns it out. Horatio spins and fires back at an invisible enemy, every shot wild until the cartridges are nearly spent. Turns back for help from another pair of eyes.

And Eric is lying like a broken plaything, staring into no man's land.


	2. Limbo

**Author's Notes, 7/22: **Sorry this took so long…I kept getting stuck on transition paragraphs and abandoning work for weeks at a time. Anyway, this is meant to follow the preceding chapter, but can also be read as a standalone. Though set post-Man Down, the bulk of it was written prior to the airing of said episode, and as such the timeline of memory loss may not entirely line up with canon.

Limbo

Hands and voices are all Eric remembers of the time just after surgery. Not words, and no specific memories, but familiar touch and tone begin to trickle in days after the first time he wakes up with a blank where yesterday should have been. The sensory information blends with imagination, until he thinks he can form a picture of those hours he was out. Horatio's words would have been the same, "Hang in there. Don't give up," and Alexx with her soft murmurs, mothering until his own arrived. Ryan, nervous and agitated, no touch there, and always accompanied by Calleigh. Calleigh he can visualize all too well, voice cool and fractured and he knows later Speedle was heavy on their minds.

The thing is, Speed wasn't on his.

It's his second realization of a day that's barely begun, and why he can't look Horatio in the eye when the lieutenant comes in later, expression saying what his words never will. Horatio is here seeking redemption, not from Eric himself but from the sight of him. He needs proof of life, something tangible, to feed his conscience. To tell himself he didn't lose another. Eric doesn't interrupt. Lets the companionable silence soothe Horatio and scream accusations at him.

"_Speedle lost his life, you lost your badge. So, you even now?"_ No, he wants to tell Stetler's echo, and they never were.

He's told he's been shot, but instead of flashing back to his friend, all he can think about is where Marisol's gone to now. At times he can hear her murmuring, her fingers grazing his with the whisper of a prayer, but the lure of sleepalways pulls him back to its depths before he can let her know he's awake. He keeps missing her; every time he opens his eyes someone else is in her place.

The pieces don't line up when they tell him she's dead. The cancer won, then, and meanwhile he had failed to uphold his promise that he would always be there for her; the realization leaves him slumped and bitter for the rest of the day. It takes him longer still to understand the gap in time, and when he does, the alternative isn't any better.

Once more the thought of his friend taps around the edges. He can see it in the corners of Calleigh's eyes; the parallels are too obvious to ignore. But he doesn't care what medicine and logic have to say, he still thinks a bullet to the head ought to do as much damage as one to the heart. Either they should have saved Speed, or they shouldn't have saved him.

It's hard to say which one he believes more

There's less sleep than simple loss of consciousness these days, and he doesn't really dream, although images filter through. Flashes and noise, vague shapes of ideas. He wakes up one morning with not quite a memory, but a recollection that the setup seemed amusing at the time, as Horatio dragged him out of sight. He had been mostly still conscious and biting down on his tongue both against the pain and to keep from laughing hysterically, because it was Brazil all over again but he wasn't supposed to be the one bleeding.

_You both took bullets for Horatio, are you even_ now_? Are you the favorite? _

No, no, no…he beats the voice back to the furthest corners of his mind, knowing full well that it will return. For months, years, every crackle over the radio of "officer down" brought his mind back to the same place, an involuntary stiffening of the shoulders, bracing himself to hear that Calleigh was lying pale and still with blood seeping over her vest, or that Horatio wouldn't be walking through the door.

He can't imagine being present at such an incident even once, let alone twice. With an uncomfortable swallow, Eric realizes that Horatio has done exactly that, twice watched his team shrink by a quarter before his eyes. Morbid curiosity rising, he wonders who the other man thought of first after the second bullet struck, his friend or his bride or his brother, and decides he doesn't want to know. There is no satisfactory answer.

Last year's wound on his arm still bears the faintest bit of a discolored scar, 2006 as good as tattooed on him, but already more healed than his parents. They'll be crippled long after his hair grows back to cover the mark of 2007, just like the bullet fragments will stay lodged beneath, constant reminders, _you survived what your sister didn't_.

It bothers him that he can't remember the bullet that left the first mark. He's read the police reports, read his own statements, but he still can't even see it in the third person perspective, much less the first. The paradox of the falling tree: if he doesn't remember, did it really happen?

Unable to accept her end, Eric confronts the cemetery. It's supposed to bring him closure, but the first thing he sees upon arrival is an open grave. It yawns, gaping and morbid, two rows from Marisol's so he can't possibly avoid seeing it, waiting for him to take his place in the ground where he belongs. His thoughts are half hysteric, it's not his grave; it's _not_. The flowers never reach her headstone and he's spinning to get out of there, fallen tulip heads melting into mud.

Time jumps erratically forward and he's standing in front of an etching for Tim Speedle, not quite sure how he made it here, with nothing but the apologies he had this time a year ago, and the year before that.

They never talk about him anymore. They used to, that first year of adjustment, even if it was more often than not followed by a biting of the tongue, a guilty look and a quick change in topic. Old habits die hard - but they are not immortal. Utterances of "Speed would…" gradually went from few and far between to non-existent as their daily vocabulary smoothly shrank by two words. And Eric began to understand that time was a corrosive element as much as a healer.

He has nothing left in his hands to mark this visit, but perhaps a fingerprint will suffice. Speed would appreciate the humor.

Weeks later, even while arguing about his readiness to return to work, his memory remains patchy. There's a very real possibility, one he refuses to fully acknowledge, that it will never be restored, which doesn't bode well for his future at all. Where he'll be then is anyone's guess. In the meantime, he isn't dead, but as long as he's like this he hasn't really come back to life, either. Flip a coin and he's standing on the edge, neither here nor there. Life is the better option, he thinks, but the dead at least have peace.

Eric is still in limbo.


	3. Clockwork Silence

**A/N, 4/7/08: **Believe it or not, I never considered this story abandoned. It's just taken me this long (admittedly at the rate of working about 1 day a month) to beat this chapter into shape. It is a bit different in that it's composed of mini ficlets from the perspectives of four other characters; each is separated by a line of a verse from the song. They work surprisingly well for dividers/quasi-titles, especially considering that I wrote the bulk of the content before I ever considered including lyrics.

**Clockwork Silence**

_Tattered thought balloons above our heads _

He and Eric have their best conversations in hospitals.

The thought strikes him in the middle of counting the scuff marks between his feet, and Ryan almost laughs aloud at the absurdity of its truth.

He'd figured out long ago that they were never going to be the kind of pals who hung out after work, and that on this team he'd never have the same easy camaraderie he did on patrol. But he'd also somehow thought a life lived half in the lab would mean he didn't have to worry that any day could take one of them out. His mind always conveniently left out the memory of how he'd gotten the job in the first place.

Talking seems superfluous, and he'd probably only embarrass himself, so Ryan doesn't say anything at all. Instead he hangs half in and half out of the room, standing sentinel. Against what, he doesn't know, when the most dangerous foes lurk in the room already, but it's a role with purpose and he needs direction.

The walls inside the hospital, expanses of confining white, make him uneasy. Glaring lights point out imperfections in a place that can afford none and flimsy curtains provide mere illusions of privacy. Everywhere, reminders of his last visit to a place like this - not the stay, but the aftermath, Eric offering him a ride home without needing to say much more. They understand each other best, Ryan notes, without words involved. Words between them get in the way; comments become jokes become barbs breed resentment and suddenly they're at loggerheads again, with no clear reason why.

He should go in. Tell him not to give up. Promise to work on curbing those stupid, petty disagreements.

He crosses his arms the other way and resumes his watch.

_Sinking in the weight of all we need to say_

The rosary seems inconsequential in the weight of the room, too pale as its tiny beads play across her skin, slipping into his hand. It's nearly identical to one she collected at a crime scene last week; take it to evidence, seal it in a bag, holiness lost amidst the bullets and blood. The object is a symbol more of his faith than hers, and she wonders if it means the same when she had to dig it out of the back of her locker, buried there so many months ago it must have been years. But it's something, at least, a talisman of hope for them both.

His hands are very still, unresponsive, and that's the most frightening thing in all of this. Eric makes her think of little boys and constant motion. He's always occupied with something, juggling three leads at once and tapping out drumbeat melodies when the computers run slow. Calleigh wonders if even his dreams have agendas.

She folds his fingers over the metal to give them something to do, and lets hers linger to feel the independent pulse in his thumb. His nails are short and rough in contrast to the smooth polish of hers, with one bruised dark purple, almost black, like a stain. She tries not to think of omens.

When she speaks, her words echo off spaces, and the sentences sound hollow.

_Whys and what-ifs have since long played out_

It's Alexx who sees his family arrive, Alexx who shoos Calleigh and Ryan home for sleep and makes the order stick in a way that Horatio's mere suggestion didn't. In the quiet interim she sits on the corner of the unforgiving mattress and lets her voice fill the time, easy and measured with none of her inner tremor present. "You're holding the team together, honey," she says softly, watching the future without him spin sideways. It will be the last straw for Calleigh, already distanced from Horatio. Alexx has a pretty good idea where she'll go, and it won't involve the mentor who's stopped acknowledging her existence except to authorize her timecards. They'll be left with Ryan and Natalia and the third new person in as many years, a collection of misfits with nowhere else to go.

When the words run out she moves to another language, scanning the charts and test results, _her_ dialect, reading records of chances that another life never had. Sixteen minutes and a hypodermic needle had made the difference between his lying on the bed or her table. The memory stings bittersweet: Tim could have lived.

But she's in the business of closure, knows better than anyone how questioning what might have been will only drive you mad. This far to the right, Eric wouldn't have any options. This far to the left, there wouldn't be a bandage on his head at all. Phantasmagorias not worth chasing - the only truth lies where it's fallen, possibilities written in invisible ink alongside the painstaking detail of his injuries. The rest is a game of patience and perseverance.

Platitudes never solve as much as she hopes.

_Left us short on happy endings_

Never mind that her teammate might be dead, Natalia's first priority is the _evidence_. Never mind that Ryan had shot past her at a dead run, or that in two hours her only update had been a secondhand report from Frank; the case takes precedence. When she calls the apology in Calleigh's voice sounds thin. "We just, we really need you there, okay?" So she smiles and agrees, because it's not like she ever really earned their trust as a permanent member of the team. The voice in her head mockingly twists the instructions. _Stay here and hold down the fort, that's a good rookie. We'll call you if anything changes. You know, like if he dies. _

At that her stomach revolts, but there's nothing there except the morning's coffee, so her calves stay pinned against the chair as her fingers run mechanical searches for license plates and car models. All of it seems futile, suddenly, when their hostage was probably dead before Eric started looking. This is not what she signed up for, if she ever knew.

They're not anything now. Even then, they were only an office affair. Everyone knew about it and knew it wasn't anything special, and everyone knew it didn't give Natalia any right to be there at this side a year and a half later. She could do her waiting and worrying from the crime lab.

Last November, Natalia would have been there waiting for him to wake up, office gossip be damned. Last November: before she'd started over from the bottom, before he'd looked at her with resentment and a clear accusation of betrayal, deaf to any other explanation.

And when she hears that his mind's still stuck in last November, all she can think is that she'll betray him once more.


End file.
